


Back in the Day

by morrezela



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Coping, Food, M/M, Men - Freeform, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6105851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Stucky: Bucky was used to wanting things he couldn’t have. It started when he was a kid and never stopped since then. But at least he knew how to make a casserole out of nothing, thanks to Steve’s ma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back in the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This isn’t real. Marvel & the Mouse own the rights. I’m making no money off this work. 
> 
> Warnings: References to hunger/starvation, war, homophobia and other things.
> 
> A/N: This was written for Food and Cooking square on my 2016 Trope Bingo Card
> 
> As always, all mistakes you find are my own.

Ritz crackers tasted different from what Bucky remembered. At first, he had thought that maybe it was whatever Hydra and assorted bad guys had been doing to him for the past several decades. But potatoes tasted the same, so he was pretty sure that it was all Nabisco’s fault on the Ritz.

 

Then again, only some potatoes tasted the same as the ones he remembered. There were so many varieties nowadays. The plethora of them had stunned him when he’d gone to the grocery store. Four different ladies had tried to help him pick out the right ones. They’d all assumed that his gal had sent him to the store, and he was clueless.

 

Bucky didn’t get angry at them about it. He did stand there for forty-five minutes. He was sure he’d looked confused. Hell, he might’ve thought the same thing as them once upon a time. Fellas weren’t no good as bachelors – at least that was what people had said.

 

The modern era was a lot more accepting of a guy not having a wedding ring on his finger. Even the kind of man who might want another man warming his bed was a lot more acceptable. A couple of guys might even get hitched. Back when Bucky first came of age, the mere notion would’ve made ten people on his block keel over of heart attacks.

 

But time, as he had experience in painful detail, changed. If he ever needed a reminder of that fact, all he had to do was roll up his sleeve and look at the hunk of metal sitting where his arm should have been. He didn’t need to think about the memories that haunted his mind. There were enough people looking to punish him for those crimes he had no choice in committing, he didn’t need to be helping them.

 

At least, that was what Steve said. And Steve was Bucky’s conscience. When the world was spinning around him, Steve told him who he was. He might’ve been the only goddamned person who could get through to the man underneath the human machine that was the Winter Soldier. For that, Bucky would lick Steve’s boots clean in the mornings if he asked.

 

Steve, of course, would never ask such a thing. Even after years of war and decades of fame, Bucky could still see the way that he shifted when attention was focused on him. Steve would run head first into an entire platoon of enemy soldiers without batting an eye, but give him too much praise and he’d blush like a schoolgirl.

 

He was better at hiding it now than he used to be. Bucky didn’t know if it was the military or something else that taught Steve to stand tall when he was getting praised as well as when he was getting beat. Most men were the other way around. Too much pride and not enough guts to do the right thing. Not Steve.

 

Bucky felt a smile tug at his lips like a foreign parasite. Hazy memories said that he used to own a grin that was a whole mile wide. Sharper ones said that assets don’t smile, they obey. The white of a toothy grin could get a man shot dead in an instant. Bucky knew that for a fact. He’d been the one on the other end of the rifle.

 

Foreign or not, smiling felt good. There had been too many days where nothing but despair and death surrounded him. He’d spent too many days surrounded by the cold dark of a cryogenic chamber.

 

“Gatherin’ wool, Barnes,” Bucky cursed at himself as he peeled and diced the potatoes, careful not to take too much flesh off as he went, some ghost of a voice fretting about there being enough food to last the week. The small kitchen was sunny and the cupboards chocked full of all manner of food, but old habits were hard to break.

 

The people Steve called friends couldn’t understand, at least not in the way that Steve would. The Depression was a time where it wasn’t just you and your family having troubles. It was everybody around you. Miles and miles of hungry stomachs and gaunt faces spoke of months of want.

 

Bucky had no idea how to make a fancy steak or barbeque a fancy rack of ribs like he’d seen some of the others do. He knew about pitifully tough chuck steak and ribs that had more sinew than meat to them. He knew about cutting the green off a ham, and being thankful that there was ham at all. He remembered eating meat as a once a week thing, maybe twice if they were lucky.

 

So when it came time for him to show Steve just how much he meant to him, Bucky had drawn a blank. He knew how to cook. Knew that some part of Steve had to be nostalgic for it, used to the days when Bucky would come feed him after he fell ill again. Bucky’s ma had taught him simple stuff, assuring him that with his looks he’d find a good gal to keep house.

 

Sarah Rogers had taught him more. He’d always been underfoot, and Steve had needed to rest. So she taught him how to cook his own meals, darn his own sock and launder his own clothes. Bucky was sure that if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Rogers, he wouldn’t have any life skills at all.

 

The rattle of the front doorknob had Bucky flipping the knife he’d been using into an offensive position. He held his body perfectly still, calculating how long it would take him to get to the nearest gun. The one in the cereal cupboard was probably the closest, but it was buried beneath way too many boxes of the crap that Steve called food.

 

The one underneath the living room couch was probably a better bet. He’d have cover when he dived down. The time reaching under the couch for it should be minimal. He’d practiced that dive from a few different angles.

 

The door swung open, and Steve walked inside. Bucky quickly flipped the knife back around to an ‘I was doing nothin’ but chopping these veggies’ position and relaxed his body. If Steve noticed anything, he didn’t mention it. That was why Bucky loved Steve. For a smart ass punk that loved landing himself in trouble, he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

 

“You’re back early,” Bucky grunted as he finished dicing the carrots that he’d bought on a whim.

 

“Yeah,” Steve agreed as he hung his jacket up on the coat rack by the door, “it was _suggested_ by a few of my teammates that I might enjoy a long weekend.”

 

Bucky felt a swell of amusement bubble in his chest, but he couldn’t make his lips twitch. It used to be easier to show his delight in Steve’s antics. It used to be easier to do a lot of things.

 

“Dinner isn’t done yet,” he said quickly, before the silence could drag on too long.

 

“You making me dinner, Barnes?” Steve teased as he carefully walked towards Bucky, telegraphing every single move he made, making unreasonable amounts of noise.

 

Bucky wished that Steve didn’t have to do that. There was a time where being quiet wouldn’t have earned him a knife in his ribs, but those days were long gone.

 

“I’m making dinner,” Bucky corrected as he turned his face away to look down at the ingredients he’d been working on. He didn’t blush. If memory served, he wouldn’t have blushed even before the war. But his heart did pick up its pace just the tiniest amount. If he maybe had a more than friends _thing_ for Steve, it was nobody else’s business.

 

“Is that Ma’s casserole?” Steve asked as he peeked over Bucky’s shoulder.

 

The warmth emanating from his body was tangible. Anybody else would be face first on the floor if they tried to stand where Steve was standing. But Bucky’s dick liked to override his other instincts.

 

“Not that faithful to her recipe,” Bucky grunted. He could feel Steve’s pleased smile. He didn’t need to see even a reflection of it to know it was there.

 

“People these days don’t know good food,” Steve said.

 

Bucky snorted. “You keep telling yourself that, Rogers.”

 

“It’s true!” Steve protested good-naturedly. “They’ve got their fancy ingredients and three-hundred dollar a pound beef or whatever, but that doesn’t mean it’s good.”

 

“If you say something about good food needing to be made with love, I’m gonna hit you with a spoon,” Bucky grumbled.

 

“I would never,” Steve promised with a too innocent look on his face.

 

Bucky let him get by with his not so honest fib. He knew it wasn’t ‘love’ that made Sarah’s casserole taste better than fancy New York Strip steaks, but it was something like it. It was nostalgia, memories of a different time when nothing tasted better than a little flavor in your potatoes. Well, that was a fib in itself. What tasted best was knowing your stomach was going to be filled.

 

If anybody could appreciate memories, Bucky supposed that person would be him. Even if those memories were of The Great Depression and all those years he spent wondering if Steve would live to see the next day.

 

“Kids these days don’t understand what wanting is,” Bucky observed gruffly.

 

Steve went still. Bucky could practically feel the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to puzzle out the right response. He couldn’t help but sigh and shake his head. “Kind of miss the days when you were more courage than sense. Miss that stupid punk taking on idiots three times his size.”

 

“Some would say I still do,” Steve replied hesitantly.

 

Bucky finally turned away from the food to look at Steve’s face. “They’ve never seen a scrawny, ninety pound idiot throwing his fists at a group of jackasses picking on a stray cat with no plan on how he was going to win.”

 

Steve shook his head. “Of course I had a plan. I knew you’d show up eventually.”

 

“And if I hadn’t?”

 

Steve shrugged. “Then I’d come home with a new shiner and busted lip, and the cat would still be alive.”

 

“I hope those idiot kids know what they’ve signed up for if that’s still as far as your planning acumen goes,” Bucky said as he opened the oven to put the casserole in.

 

“Those ‘kids’ are our age, Buck,” Steve said with a roll of his eyes.

 

“Maybe they’re your age,” Bucky said quietly, “but they’re not mine.”

 

Steve didn’t reply. That was fine. Bucky didn’t want soft words or condolences. The facts were what they were. Steve spent decades frozen in a block of ice while the world went by. The world’s changes didn’t fly by Bucky. He made a lot of those changes happen.

 

He had lived those passing years even if they happened just days at a time before he was frozen again. He had memories of the changing fashion, mores and technology. The knowledge made him feel older than his body was.

 

And even all the horrible things he had been forced to do were nothing compared to the war. The Avengers and their superhero ilk faced horrible situations. They had seen their friends die. But nothing was like war. War wasn’t flashy tights and superpowers.

 

War was waking up to find the guy next to you missing half his face. War was being twenty-one and feeling so much older than the fresh faced nineteen-year-old who just joined your regiment. War was knowing that any of your friends might be dead the next day, and that wouldn’t change a damned thing. It wouldn’t end a war.

 

Humans fought wars. They had guns or maybe tanks, but they were no Tony Starks with their fancy flying suits. They were soft bodied kids who had the luxury of boot camp before being shipped off to face a grim destiny.

 

“Sam’s okay,” Bucky finally said when the silence seemed to stretch on too long. Sam was a veteran. If Bucky was going to pick somebody who could understand him that wasn’t Steve, it would be Sam. Even if the guy had a tendency to want Bucky to talk about his experiences, the understanding was nice.

 

“Yeah, Sam is okay,” Steve agreed. “Doesn’t know about good food though.”

 

“I wonder about your taste buds,” Bucky said with a shake of his head, willing it to shake away his memories.

 

“You’re the one making Ma’s casserole,” Steve pointed out.

 

“Well, you should be worrying about my fondness for idiot kids from Brooklyn then. If I had my way, I’d be eating some of that fancy caviar Stark sent you as a housewarming gift.” The words were a blatant lie. Bucky hated caviar. Though, if memory served, he could fake enjoying it well enough when he was blending into a high society crowd.

 

Sure enough, Steve called him on his bullshit. “You hate caviar.”

 

“Steak then,” Bucky amended.

 

“Steak is good,” Steve agreed. “Not as good as Ma’s casserole though, and you know it.”

 

“Like I said, I’m fond of idiot kids from Brooklyn.”

 

“Idiot kids from Brooklyn named Steve?” Steve asked.

 

Bucky looked and him then looked away. He hated it when Steve had on his sincere face. It made him feel like Steve was staring right down into his soul – always had. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly.

 

Silence reigned for a few minutes. The ticking sound of the oven cooling and heating was the only noise interrupting the soft huffs of their breath.

 

“If you ever want to talk,” Steve offered awkwardly.

 

“Not today, Steve,” Bucky said as loudly as he could without breaking. He wasn’t ready for that kind of talk. There was wanting and then there was _wanting._ And he’d been crazy over Steve Rogers since before the war - back in the days when whispering of that kind of want would’ve been reason enough to kill a man.

 

“Okay then,” Steve said amiably enough, “but don’t wait too long, or I’ll have to make you talk. And I’ll have to get inventive seems how bathtub gin isn’t gonna cut it for us anymore.”

 

“I won’t,” Bucky promised. “Just not today.”

 

Steve knocked his foot against Bucky’s, a gesture of comfort that he could still give without getting a knife stuck in his ribs. A pang of nostalgia hit Bucky at the thought that he once wouldn’t have thought anything of throwing his arm around Steve’s shoulders, and Steve wouldn’t have hesitated to clap his hand against Bucky’s.

 

Times had changed though and not all of that change had been for the worse even if it felt that way. Bucky stole a glance at Steve’s profile as the other man rummaged around in the fridge, looking for a pre-dinner snack. He allowed himself to admire it for just the barest of seconds, but it was still more than he’d have allowed himself before.

 

Maybe he could get used to the way the world was now.

 

 


End file.
